Long Ride Home
by Tinkerpanda
Summary: Stories from Jules' long road to recovery.
1. Gurgle

_I kind of didn't want to get into anything too plot intensive too quickly after finishing my last so forgive me if that's kind of what you were looking or hoping for. This is a series of one-shots about Jules' recovery. This is kind of like a photoalbum in a way. Where it has moments. And it's the same characters and often the same places and settings and relationships. But it's not a continuous story. Anyway I hope you enjoy it._

_I suck at titles and have recently taken to ripping them from songs. Yeah. I'm clearly super creative. Not that I think the record companies would bother, but just to cover my ass Imma let y'all know that it's from Patty Griffin's Long Ride Home - which is a beautiful song by the way._

_Disclaimer: T'is not I that owneth Flashpoint. Or Patty Griffins.  
_

_**... **__**... **__**... **__**... **__**... **_

_It's a decoy. Fall back! Fall back now, take cover!_

Ed's voice, angrily booming through her earpiece, didn't have time to register, _  
_

Pain slammed through her. It coursed through every bone, every muscle, every nerve. It was like an explosion, ripping through her body. The agony was white-hot. Her chest felt like it was on fire, the pressure unbearable. There was a sick slide of sticky, wet warmth under her vest.

The world stopped.

Her gun dropped to the wooden slats of the roof with a thud too dull for her numbed ears to hear. And the ground rose up to meet her.

She tried to breathe but each tiny movement sent off waves of pain that shot through her. It was overwhelming.

Sam's voice was frantic. She didn't understand the words. Suddenly he was crouching beside her, the shield carefully propped on his arm. Shots resonated as they pinged uselessly against the metal barrier. He pressed down on her chest, against the vest and the weeping wound beneath. She gasped with pain.

_Stay with me Jules. Stay with me._

She tried. She struggled to keep her eyes opens. The adrenalin is fading now, and the only thing left is the pain. Her eyelids drop – they're so heavy. She's so tired. And cold. Her teeth chattered.

_Stay with me._

She couldn't. She fought the rising flood of black. But found the lulling calm of sleep too great.

_Goodbye Sam_.

The words came out as a garbled rasp.

And she slipped under.


	2. Seep

_Ah - I went back and edited the first chapter because I noticed some weird grammar/tense business going on. Sorry. Bit distracted as of lately._

_This chapter is Sam's persepctive on the shooting so it's incredibly similar to the former. I don't plan to alternate their perspectives for every event, but this one's pretty major and I think it's worth looking into what he's thinking or feeling.  
_

**... ... ... ... ... **

_It's a decoy. Fall back! Fall back now, take cover!_

She was exposed – they both were. Sitting ducks. His hair stood on end and sweat pooled at the base of his spine.

On his last convoy operation in Afghanistan they'd been ambushed, trapped on a rocky road winding through a steep-walled mountain pass. He'd sensed it. Before the first shot had been fired. The uneasiness sat in his belly, heavy. The fire had come, quick and hot, bullets pounding their vehicles, thudding into the grey sand at his feet. The dash for cover, to find a perch to return fire, was mad. Blood pounded in his ears, his heart raced in his chest.

The same wave of panicked fear, the desperate wash of urgency pumped through him now.

All he knew now was they needed off this roof. They needed off _now_.

He raced towards her, hurtling down the stairs. But before he'd reached the last tread he saw her fall. She jerked, thrown backwards by the impact. She crumpled.

The world stopped.

He couldn't close the distance fast enough.

He knelt beside her, propping the shield up against his shoulder. Reaching with one hand he pressed against her side. She flinched in pain. Her breathing was shallow, chest rising and falling quickly beneath the Kevlar vest shredded by the bullet. Blood coated his fingers. Jules' blood. Bullets continued to pound mercilessly on the shield, deformed bullets landing at his feet. Sam damned the shooter to hell.

_Officer down, officer down! Medic up now! Jules has been hit!_

She was fighting to stay awake, to stay conscious. Each breath came ragged and shallow. He'd seen it before – men shot in the line of duty. Men killed in the line of duty. He'd pressed his hands to a gun wound before, trying to stem the blood. Watching as the man's eyes slowly greyed, closing shut for the last time. He'd felt that last breath heave in. He'd felt a man die before. He couldn't do it again. He couldn't do it with Jules.

_Stay with me_. He urged. _Stay with me Jules._

She gasped. Bullets were flying faster now, ricocheting off. And he can feel her sliding away.

_Stay with me_. More desperate this time.

But she was gone.

For a minute his heart stopped entirely, his fingers pressed against her neck praying for a heartbeat. And nearly laughs when he feels the pulse. Thready. Weak. Slow. But there.

_We're under fire – get up here now! Somebody get an angle on this guy! Shots are coming from city hall!_

Each second drags, lasting an eternity.

He couldn't lose her. She's the only woman who he had ever loved. And he hadn't told her. He couldn't think of a world without her. He needed her with him. He needed Jules.

_Stay with me.  
_


	3. Moan

The elevator rocketed downwards beneath their feet.

"Come on Jules. Come on." He muttered, pressing a hand to her side. There was so much blood – too much. It made his hands slick. Looking down at his hands, coated in her blood, his stomach gave a sickening lurch. "Open your eyes, Jules."

She recoiled in pain, her gasping breath caught on a moan.

"Pulse is weak." Wordy said, shaking fingers pressed against her throat. He carefully unfastened her helmet. Greg knelt by her head, carefully stroking her hair away from her face in a meek offering of comfort.

"Medics'll meet us in the lobby." Parker said quietly. He was trying to stay calm - for his team. But his hands shook, his heart racing in his chest.

"Coagulation packs." Sam heard himself croak. "They'll need coag-packs. Need to stop the bleeding."

"They'll have them." Lou murmured.

Beneath Sam's hands she arched and quivered. Trying to escape the pain, he knew. She tried to curl away from the unbearable pressure as he clamped a hand down over her wound, trying to stem the bleeding.

"It's okay. You're doing great Jules." He murmured. "Just another couple minutes. Promise. I promise you."

Her eyes, clouded with pain, snapped open for one a second, locking on his. Endless, deep, rich brown. The kind you could drown in. Her lips parted, trembling. But the words wouldn't form – just a meager hiss of air as it whistled through her dry lips.

"Jules."

He wouldn't ever know what she'd wanted to say. The elevator lurched to a stop. And the motion had her eyes rolling back under those thick lashes as unconsciousness took control once again.


	4. Bang

_Hey guys - thanks for the wonderful reviews. My class this morning was cancelled! Yeah! So I had some extra time to do a little writing. I'm really enjoying writing these oneshots, and I hope you are enjoying reading them as well. Love always.  
_

_**...**  
_

There were a lot of things snipers did to make their jobs easier. It wasn't easy taking a life. Not even when ending that life meant saving others. Knowing that letting a child-bomber run into a market would have far more devastating effects that shooting them didn't make it feel any better. Sam knew that.

The simplest, safest thing to do was to put away all emotion. To completely disengage from everything. You couldn't feel regret or pity or sorrow. You couldn't feel fear or anger. Not when everything was on the line. You couldn't afford to hesitate or tremble.

Steel. You needed to be icy steel. You needed to put aside your humanity for ten seconds, line up the shot and pull the trigger. When he stared down the barrel of that rifle he wasn't Sam Braddock anymore.

It was cold. It was calculated.

Only afterwards could you let yourself think.

But today wasn't like that.

Because the man he was lining up in his sights wasn't a misguided child. He wasn't an old man trying to scrounge up the funds to see to it his sick wife got the care she needed. He wasn't a father desperate to get his child the surgery she needed. He wasn't a scared teenager retaliating against his bullies. He wasn't an insurgent. He wasn't a thug. He wasn't an enraged alcoholic. He wasn't a grieving wife mourning her husbands' affair. He wasn't a frightened immigrant, scared of deportation. He wasn't a gang initiate, desperate to belong.

He wasn't any of those things.

He was the man who'd shot his partner. His friend. Jules.

Sam couldn't shelf the rage. He couldn't tuck away that fear, nagging in his head, that she wouldn't be okay. That she wouldn't get to the hospital in time. He couldn't hem away the guilt, that nasty, heavy guilt, that he should have shielded her. He hadn't protected her.

His hands were rock-still, stained with her blood.

He lined up the view, focusing in on the pair of shadowy figures in the engine room. They were interlocked – almost as if they were dancing. _Just a few inches more_ he silently urged. Just a few more inches and he'd have a clear shot. A few feet forward and he'd step into the light. He'd step out of the shelter of the cement pillar.

The men shifted.

He squeezed the trigger.

The figure, dressed in the gunmetal grey of the SRU uniform, spun. Fell.

It was over.


	5. Whisper

_Just a quick update. Thanks to everyone who reviewed. I hope I can live up to your expectations in the coming chapters. Italics are for the medics and nurses and doctors._

All around her the sirens wailed. They moaned in her ear, low and mournfully.

She'd never felt colder in her life - like falling through ice. A shocking, breath-stealing, aching cold. She shivered beneath the woolen blanket wrapped tightly around her body. She struggled to breathe, each rising and falling motion of her chest sent sparks of pain through her very being. Every single part of her _hurt _like the devil. A plastic mask was secured over her mouth and nose forcing oxygen down her throat. She felt weak - frustratingly, pitifully weak. Her mouth, bone dry, couldn't manage to form the words she wanted to say.

Urgent voices spoke in a language she didn't quite understand.

_We need an EKG – HR's dropping. BP's falling. Radio the OR – she's going to need a blood transfusion, STAT._

Hands, gentle ones, applied pressure to the tightly dressed wound. The cloths were turning a dark, rusted red. Fingers pressed against her neck, feeling for a pulse.

Her chest burned.

Like it was on fire. The pain was paralyzing.

The ambulance came to an abrupt stop, slamming to a halt. The shrieking of its horn finally stopped. Jules' didn't have a chance to feel grateful for long – the heavy metal doors were flung open and the rays of the high afternoon sun's light flooded her vision. She pressed her eyes closed against the sharp invasion. Too bright.

Hurried, heavy footsteps pounded the pavement and the sky above whirled as she was wheeled through the emergency bay. Long hallways of fluorescent lights replaced the unclouded sky.

More hands checking her wounds. Scissors nipping as they cut away the soaked uniform and the mangled vest.

_SRU Officer Julianna Callaghan, GSW. Wearing a Kevlar vest – slowed the bullet but didn't stop it. Through and through – no major arterial damage. Lost a lot of blood. In and out of consciousness._

She fought to understand them. But their voices were distant

_Julianna? Can you move your fingers and toes? We want to check for spinal damage._

She fought to wriggle them. She figured she must have been successful because the dark haired woman who'd asked beamed down at her, patting her hand. She was too tired to care at the moment.

_We're going to put you under. Do you understand? We need to operate._

There was a prick in her arm as somebody slid a needle beneath it.

No! She wasn't ready yet. She yanked with all her might on the nurse's hand, frustrated when the best she could manage was a feeble pull.

_What's that?_

She licked her lips. Gathering all of her strength and concentration, she bore down on the words.

"'Am. Love Sam."

In case she didn't make it. He had to know. She had to make sure he knew.

The medicine dragged her under.


	6. Huff

He knew he shouldn't have asked. He _knew_ that it was against code to talk to a subject officer. He _knew_ better. He was breaking the rules. But, in the moment, he didn't give a flying fuck. Because he couldn't quite get the image of Jules' lying bleeding on that roof out of his heads. He couldn't get the feeling of her blood running through her hands to go away. Couldn't forget the sound of her breath, rasping in and out painfully - or stem the fear that they had been some of her last.

"Where is she?"

"St. Simon's. We're on our way." Greg said slowly.

"I want to go with you." He couldn't stop the demand.

He didn't want to go with SIU. He didn't want to be questioned and poked and prodded. It was textbook for God's sake. Absolutely textbook. Petar Tomasic had already shot a member of his team and was holding a second at gunpoint. The one who'd shot his father in a stand-off months earlier. He had shown premeditated, lethal intent. He would have killed Ed. Sam had been completely justified in his shot. If he hadn't taken it Ed wouldn't be alive.

Sam didn't want to waste damned time with the investigation now. His answers wouldn't change in the next day. It wouldn't matter if they delayed the interview. He wanted to go with the rest of his team. He wanted to be with Jules when she woke up. He didn't want her to be alone.

But Parker gave a quick shake of his head.

"Boss The paperwork can wait." He protested.

"Sam. Get there when you can okay? We'll be there. We're not going anywhere."

Their eyes meet. And Sam was sure, now more than ever, that Sarge knows because there's an understanding and sympathy there.

He opens his mouth to argue. Then pressed it shut in a firm line, storming towards the waiting cruiser.

He wanted this over - as quickly as possible.

He needed to get back to her.


	7. Thud

_This isn't quite how I wanted it to go - I'm not totally satisfied with it. But I'm afraid I'm going to be HELLA busy for the next week or possibly two and I really want to keep things kind of moving along. I wanted to make sure I at least update now because I'm not really sure when the next time I'll be able to will be. Thanks again to everyone for the positive responses this has been getting! Love you all!_

**...** ... ... ... ... **...**

_Boots_

He yanked at the laces, viciously tugging them off. They dropped on the aluminum table with a dull thud.

_Vest_

With numb fingers he pulled off the fastenings and buckles that kept it secure. Shrugging it off he let it fall too.

_Shirt_

Why not? It wasn't like he ever wanted to wear it again. The SRU badge on the sleeve was stained rusty red, where his bloodied hand had grazed it. At this point he rather wanted to burn it.

_Pants_

He stripped them too. He felt strangely vulnerable now, standing half-naked in the air-conditioned interrogation room. He suppressed a shiver.

The clerk dutifully bagged and sealed each item. He handed Sam the neatly-folded clothes he'd worn to work that day. He hurriedly tugged on the jeans. His hands were rock steady – years of condition had taught them to move of their own accord, carefully completing the menial task of buttoning the snap. But inside: utter and complete chaos.

His lawyer strutted in, receding hairline beaded with sweat from August's high heat. The wilted collar of his shirt peaked over the black lapel of his suit – he must have rushed straight from court. He gave Sam a curt nod. "Sorry about your teammate."

"Yeah." Sam swallowed. "Me too. Let's get this over with. I want to be there when she gets out of surgery."

_If she got out of surgery. _The pessimistic voice in the back of his head nagged. He flinched involuntarily, shoving the nasty thought aside.

"Should be open and shut." Frank said dismissively.

"Nothing's open and shut with SIU." He remarked dryly.

The door swung open. A tall beady-eyed agent slunk into the room. He carried a clipboard and a manila file folder. His eyes were deeply sunk into his head, nearly hidden beneath a prominent set of thick, dark brows. He had the appearance of a skittish crow.

"Detective Larson." He introduced himself. His voice was surprisingly deep. "Standard procedure requires me to record this interview. Do you consent?" He asked. He spoke slowly, each word drawled out. Sam wanted to throttle him.

"Yes." He replied shortly.

He pulled a small black recorder of out his table, arranging it on the desk. He pressed the plastic buttons and a green light appeared, as if in response.

"Detective Jason Larson, Special Investigations Unit interviewing Constable Samuel Arthur William Braddock of the Strategic Response Unit regarding case number _. Subject officer fired the lethal shot, terminating one Petar Tomasic in an incident. Also present is officer Braddock's attorney Frank McAndrew."

Sam waited, with what he thought was tremendous patience, as Larson rattled through the details of the case.

"Listen. Detective Larsen. We both know that this is, by every definition of the word, textbook." Sam leaned across the small table. "The shooting was justified. He was holding a gun to the head of the cop who, in an incident a year earlier, shot his father. He was going to kill Ed. So let's call this a day and I can get back to my team. Where I'm needed."

"It's not quite that simple constable." Larsen protested.

McAndrews rolled his eyes. "Oh, _come _on. The man just watched his partner get shot in the line of duty, Larsen. Tomasic had already killed one cop, injured another and was holding a third at gunpoint. Sam got the shot, he was given scorpio. He saw the opportunity. He took it."

"You could see the gun?" Larsen asked, swing those sunken eyes back towards Sam.

Sam hesitated. "No. He was holding it against the hostage officer's back. I was informed by my team-mate who had visual into the furnace room but could not get sierra shot."

"Could he not have been mistaken?"

"He could have. But he wasn't." Sam snarled. "I could see that Ed was being held against his will. I could see from his body language that he was in danger. I could see the target. Spike confirmed the weapon."

Larsen shrunk beneath the heat of Sam's glare.

"I told Ed that he needed to step forward – get the subject moving from behind the pillar – so I could take the shot. He wouldn't have stepped forward if he'd thought he could de-escalate him. The kid was too far gone. He would have murdered Ed in cold blood." Sam protested. His hand was drawing up into a tightly-clenched fist, knuckles whitening as he bit down on the anger.

Was he supposed to watch the man shoot another of his damned team? Blood-thirsty bastards of the SIU were over the heads if they thought he'd have given Tomasic the chance to hurt another officer.

"And they recovered the subjects weapon on scene." McAndrews reminded Larsen. "He had verification that his teammate was in danger. The negotiations had not been successful. The kid wanted officer Lane dead – and he wanted to make sure he knew exactly what would happen to his family after. If Sam hadn't taken the shot you'd be investigating how three officers' got shot today instead of two. Give him the wheel."

The agent reluctantly placed the Use of Force Wheel on the table.

"Sam?" McAndrews asked.

Sam tapped a finger against the lethal action quadrant. "Subject showed serious intent to cause grevious bodily harm to the hostage officer."

"One last question." Larsen interjected. "Are your actions in the incident completely independent of any desire you may have had for vengeance on the part of your teammate, Constable Callaghan?"

Sam leveled his gaze on the detectives. He bit down, hard, on his broiling answer and, through clenched teeth, spoke. "Absolutely not." Rising to his feet, palms pressed against the cool aluminum of the table, he leant across the table until he was eye to eye with Larsen.

"We done here?"

"Yeah." Larsen's throat bobbed violently as he swallowed. "We may contact you with follow up questions, but for now you're free to ..."

He hadn't even had the chance to finish his sentence – the door was already swinging shut behind Sam's retreating back.


	8. Thrash

_This is pretty raw and unedited but I hope you enjoy! I'm sorry - I've be mad mad mad busy the past few days with school and life in general. Hope you understand and thanks for reading, as always._

**... ... ... ... ...**

Greg slipped silently through the glass door into the ICU hospital room. Jules' hospital room.

She looked so small – so frail – lying there, dwarfed by the industrial hospital bed. Her skin, a sallow green against the sharp clinical white. Beneath the edge of the grimly grey wool blanket he could see swathes of white bandage wrapped around her chest. Tubes, pipes and wires crossed her body, pumping in liquids and measuring beats. They hummed. It smelled like commercial disinfectant. He hated seeing her here – like this.

A doctor, grey hair pulled efficiently back from a sharp-featured face, strode forward.

"Sergeant Gregory Parker." He said, not taking his eyes off Jules.

"Doctor O'Shane." The woman responded, voice clipped and efficient. "Your officer's taken a bit of a beating, I'm afraid. She won't be on her feet for a while. We can't know the extent of the injuries until the swelling goes down a little. It was a through-and-through. But we are worried about nerve damage to her left arm."

"How bad?" He forced himself to ask.

"Worst case scenario – she loses complete use of it." The doctor responded.

Greg shook his head. No. Not Jules. No. He didn't want to hear this. He couldn't.

"Is she awake."

"No. But she will be in a few moments. We want to make sure the aenesthetic wears off. But afterwards there is a strong chance that we may have to put her in a medically induced coma. She lost a lot of blood today. Her body needs to recover. It may be best to put her under for a few days while she begins to heal." The doctor explained.

"Right." Greg's voice was numb. Christ. _How did this happen?_ Team One – they were more to him that co-workers. They were family. And one of them was hurting. He wished to god they could have protected her.

"Can I speak to her?"

The doctor hesitated. "Maybe for a few minutes when she comes around. I've got to check on my other patients. But when she comes to – page me."

Greg nodded solemnly. With slow steps he approached the bed. Her eyes were closed – like she was asleep. Except for the plastic tubes piping oxygen into her nose, she could have been napping. Her hair, damp with sweat, clung to her forehead. He brushed it away paternally. And patted her good arm.

Beneath his palm her hand clenched weakly.

"Hey Jules." He spoke softly. Leaning over the bed he rapidly pressed the nurse button – jabbing it again and again. "How are you doing?"

She croaked in response.

She shrunk against the bed, pressing away from the terrifying machines and tubes. Her right hand pulled feebly at the IV secured to her left arm. It rested, unmoving and unresponsive, against the gunmetal grey sheet. His heart broke for her.

"Hush." Greg said, soothingly rubbing her shoulder. "It's going to be okay Jules. We're going to get you through this. Don't you worry." He grabbed her hand to stop her from ripping out the fluids line. Clenching it hard in his, he looked down into her eyes. They were massive and confused. Bright with pain.

Her eyes darted around the room. Searching for something. Or, more accurately, someone.

The beeping of her heart monitor raced fasted, a rapid tempo thrumming through the air.

Greg smiled sadly. "He's coming Jules. He's coming. He'll be here as fast as he can."

Her struggles weakened and, after a moment, ceased.

"He's coming, Jules. Don't worry. He'll be here."


	9. Thump

_Hello all - I am literally buried beneath a MOUND of papers and presentations and have been neglecting my stories. Sorry for that. I wish I had more time. But sadly things are winding down to an end here at my university meaning every professor and their freaking guinea pig has about 12 assignments for me to do. I appreciate your guys' wonderful reviews and comments - they've incredibly encouraging. And to everyone reading: thanks._

**...**

The cab hadn't even come to a full stop before Sam was swinging out of the door. He shoved a fistful of bills through the plastic divider. The cabbie's stunned face told him it would be sufficient for what felt like the longest drive of his life, but realistically, had lasted probably only ten minutes.

All he wanted to do was see her face. He just had to know she was okay.

He raced through the heavy doors, feet pounding against the laminate floor. The smell of hospital was overwhelming – a kind of sterile, disinfected stench that permeated the very bones of the building. Nurses decked in muted scrubs scurried through the halls, between patients.

Sam skidded to a stop near the check in desk. A woman in salmon-pink linens sat perched behind it, phone pressed against her ear.

"Julianna Callaghan. I need to know where she is."

The bored looking nurse manning the desk tapped a long finger against the receiver. Her brow furrowed with irritation.

"She's a police officer – SRU." Sam said. He tried to clamp down on the urge to lunge across the desk and throttle her. "She was shot. She was in surgery?" He asked.

The woman shrugged again.

Sam leaned across the counter, slamming his palm against the plastic tongs of the phone. It shot out of the nurses' hands skittering across the counter to drop against the phone with a crash. Sam didn't so much as blink.

"Constable. Julianna. Callaghan." Sam ground out slowly, slapping his badge against the countertop. "Now." He demanded.

The nurses' eyes widened as she scrambled towards the keyboard. With a few strokes she turned back to him.

"Released from surgery twenty minutes ago. They moved her up. ICU. Room 419

He was off in a flash, dashing across those shined floors once again. He hit the elevator button and, when the doors didn't open instantly, cursing, shoved through the emergency doors and sprinted up the stairs, two at a time. Only one thought crossed his mind.

_She's okay. She's okay. She's going to be okay._

She'd survived the surgery. She'd be okay.


	10. Hum

_Hey guys - sorry haven't updated recently. I've been scary terrifying busy. What time isn't spent eating, sleepiing and showering is spent in the library cramming. Ugh. So apologies to you all and thanks for reading._

...

He didn't run. It was close. But he needed to maintain some level of normalcy and control. He couldn't afford to charge into her hospital room like a concerned boyfriend. He couldn't afford to give in the crazed voice in his head screaming for her.

Room numbers of rooms flicked by. Nurses and patients, warned by his tunnel-like concentration, scuttled out of his path quickly. He had a single-minded determination.

Find Jules.

Ahead – a flash of grey of SRU uniforms. A cluttered mob of them. Sam registers them, briefly – his weary team. And then, reaching the windowed ICU room, he saw her.

And, suddenly, that was all that mattered anymore.

That was all there was in the world.

He shoved through the doors.

The sight of her, lying motionless on the cot, forced him to stop. Unwillingly, he was reminded of his sister, lying unmoving on the pavement. He felt as helpless then as he did now.

IVs fed bags of blood into her arm. Tubes ran across her face – breathing for her. And the buzz of machines was low and constant. Her skin, sallow under the harsh and sterile light, looked too thin. He could see the veins and vessels beneath. She looks fragile.

Jules should never look fragile.

Her eyes were closed, brown hair scooped back from her damp face. His hand reaches out, smoothing a strand back from her forehead.

"Hey sweetheart. Got here as fast as I could." He whispered. He needed to explain why he hadn't been there earlier. He needed to tell her.

She doesn't respond. Her eyes don't open. Her hand, tightly gripped in his, doesn't flinch or tremble. No movement.

Just the buzzing of the machines.

"I should have protected you."

His voice cracked. He tried to hold it in, hem in the terror and guilt. He wanted to be strong for her. But, damn it, looking down at her, clinging to her life, in a hospital bed was hard. It was too hard. Knowing he'd almost lost her.

He didn't realize he was crying. The tears spilt over, running down his cheek. But he didn't really care. He was just so relieved she was okay. He was so happy that she was alive. They could get through any else. As long as she was there beside him, they'd both be okay.


	11. Beep

_Just a quick update. Kind of melodramatic, I admit. I'm officially writing the last paper of my undergrad career and it's kind of dominating my time. Thanks for reading - let me know what you think thus far._

**... ... ...**

This morning seemed like a million years ago to his weary head.

He'd almost said it – uttered those three works. The ones that change every. _I love you_.

And now, sitting here in this stupid, ugly, dark, sterile hospital room, he wondered if he'd ever get the chance.

It had been three hours. And she still wasn't awake. The team had slowly drifted. Ed, eager to his family, had reluctantly left. Wordy, too, had been eager to see his girls, and, with Sarge's promise to call him if there was any change, he trudged out the hospital doors. Lou and Spike had resisted, but Sarge had eventually convinced them to head home. It had been a long day and, no doubt, they were exhausted. Sam knew just the feeling

He left his eyes droop closed a moment, head falling back. But rest would not come. Every _single _time he closed his eyes he saw the bloody vest beneath his hands and felt her thread pulse beneath his trembling fingers. He clenched his hands, instinctively, into fists.

A doctor shuffled into the room, clipboard in hand.

"Sargent Parker. Constable Braddock." Her voice was solemn – smooth as ice.

"Why isn't she awake yet?" Sam asked, surging to his feet.

"Her body's been through a tremendous trauma. The bullet thankfully missed major arteries but she took a major shock to her system. It is going to take time for her to recover. She needs time to heal. Her body is focusing on that right now. It's conserving energy by keeping her unconscious."

Moving around the bed with an efficient air that Sam imagined even Greg was envious of; she made several notations on her charts. And sighed.

"There hasn't been any improvement in her vitals." The doctor said carefully. _They hadn't worsened either though._ Sam wanted to argue. "Her condition is stable. She's undoubtedly going to be a lot of pain she wakes up. We'd like to sedate her."

"But she's already asleep."

"I know. But we're worried that she might wake up before her body is ready. She'd be in enormous pain and it would slow the recovery. The longer she's under the longer her body has to focus solely on repairing itself. It's more likely she'll make a full recovery with this." The doctor explained, her tone both patient and clipped.

"So you want to keep her like this." Sam glanced over her shoulder at Jules. She looked so _broken_. It was so wrong. The days when he'd awoken before her, lying in her bed, he'd watched her sleep and thought how calm she looked. How serene. What a change from the kick-ass SRU officer. She didn't look at peace now. She just looked lifeless.

"What are the possible side-effects?" He asked. He had to train his voice, the words slow and clear, to keep the fear from showing.

"The most severe complication would be if we were unable to awaken her."

He swore his heart stopped. "She'd be in a coma."

"Yes." The doctor replied. Her eyes were sympathetic. Sam had to look away. He pressed a hand against his aching temple, willing the headache to fade.

"Sargent. We were unable to reach her primary emergency contact, Mr. William Callaghan?" The doctor continued.

Sarge, silent until now, nodded. With his stand still covering hers, he rose to his feet. "Her father." He said. "He's probably in an airplane somewhere over northern Ontario now. He's flying out from Medicine Hat."

The doctor nodded. "Right, well, we don't want to wait to begin her treatment. As her secondary contact, we need your permission."

Turning from Jules, Sarge didn't look at the doctor. Instead his eyes, those all-seeing eyes, locked on his. And Sam knew that Greg was leaving the choice to him.

If he said yes, she might not wake up. If he said no, she would come around to incredibly pain and a slow and arduous recovery.

_Give me strength_. He pleaded.

He glanced back at Jules. He needed her in his life. She'd become the core.

He gave the smallest of nods._ Yes._


	12. Silence

_Sorry guys - I'll just say I've been busybusybusy. Job applications for the summer, moving, seeing friends for the last times, exams. I'm literally swamped with things. So writings fallen a bit by the wayside. Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading as much as I did writing. Love you all!_

**...**

Will Callaghan was many things – farmer, father, grandfather, fisherman, former cop and occasionally and unwillingly an accountant. He'd always been able to take on these new roles. Always knew instinctively what to do. Always been able to shoulder the new burdens with ease. He was a simple man. Not stupid. But simple. You did what you had to so you could provide for your family. He'd been prepared for this his entire life.

What he wasn't prepared for was the sight of his little girl – his precious Julianna – lying in that hospital bed.

He couldn't say he'd always been pleased with the idea of her being a cop.

His memories of the Toronto force had haunted him, dogging each step until it had grown too much and he'd fled to the quiet prairie town of Medicine Hat, five orphaned children in tow. He couldn't say it had been easy. Farm life rarely was. But it had been happy. His children had always known they were loved. She'd always pushed harder than the boys. She wanted to be perfect. She wanted to do big things. Make a difference, he thought bitterly.

He hadn't always understood Julie. He tried, god knew. He told himself it was because she was his daughter, a girl, and that was why he couldn't predict her like her brothers. Why he couldn't seem to push through that shield like he could with her brothers. But he knew it was more. She'd always been more complicated. Smooth, deep waters, he thought now, as he stood above her form.

His eyes burned with the tears. She looked so much like her mother. The resemblance was almost uncanny – tiny frame, long dark hair, the same tawny eyes. The kind of eyes that see everything. They can read you in a heartbeat and know everything you're feeling. Like peeling back the layers to see inside.

Her mother had died in a hospital room like this, not 30 years ago.

And he'd almost lost her too. She wasn't awake yet – but the doctors said that she'd come around. And he had to believe them.

The dressing was wrapped tightly around her chest, the white swath of fabric just visible beneath the deep blue of the hospital scrubs. Her skin was pallid against the dark blankets. The kind of colourless fragility he knew resulted from losing too much blood. He didn't understand the things the doctors said – the language was far beyond him. But he knew what death looked like. He could see the edges and the shadows of it on her face now. She'd been blessedly lucky.

In the chair beside her bed slumped a young blonde man, . Will hadn't paid him much attention – to be honest, his focus had been so completely concentrated on Jules he'd barely even noticed him. But now, he had to wonder.

He mentally surveyed the team. Not Sarge. Too young to have that rank. And not Ed whom Jules had described as being bald as a cue-ball. Not Roly, recently promoted. And he didn't look Italian. It was nearly 4:30 in the morning – no chance he was the devoted family man Wordy. Mentally narrowing his options, he examined the other man cautiously. And he had a feeling that this man wasn't the former gang-banger who'd busted his way up through the SRU to earn the role of "less-lethal". The kid looked like he didn't know the meaning of less-lethal, to be honest.

Leaving Sam Braddock. The former JTF2 sniper whose skills even Julianna coveted.

When he'd first joined the team she'd ranted about it. She'd complained how he'd bypassed the democratic process of hiring, squeaking in the by the sheen on the silver spoon he'd been born with. He didn't understand tactics, he didn't fit. He didn't belong. He was an arrogant, cocky asshole who thought the job was about public executions But slowly those rants had slowed and finally stopped altogether. He figured the rookie had shown his true colours or his privileged ass had been sent on its way. In his experience the ones who had to rely on family connections were often too lazy, stupid or apathetic to last long.

But examining the man, Will supposed that things had changed. His eyes, hooded and dark, were sunk deep into his face. The dark smudges beneath them screamed of hours of missed sleep. He was dozing now, head hanging limply forward. Will was sure the stubble had been only a five-o'clock shadow twenty-four hours ago. Body tensed, muscles bound. He looked every bit the part of weary urban cop.

Perhaps she'd warmed to him. Jules hated change. She was stubbornly slow to accept it. Something simply must have changed though because it was the middle of the goddamned night and he was still there. He hadn't trekked home, to a warm soft bed, a burning whiskey or a lush woman. He'd stuck around. Certainly not for the uncomfortable plastic chairs, he thought eying the molten lumps of sparsely-covered plastic.

This thing went beyond partnership. At least in the cop sense.

Will gnawed on his lower lip. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. This kid may have been military royalty with a keen shot, but that wasn't nearly good enough for his Julianna. Nobody ever would be.

She hadn't told him she'd been dating. He supposed there were plenty of things a daughter didn't tell her father, he told himself. But his heart was already sinking. No doubt it was forbidden, he rationed. She probably hadn't said anything at all to anyone at all.

But still it stung being left out of the loop. That she wouldn't turn to him.

Why?

He supposed only one person had the response to that question. And at the moment she wasn't in any condition to answer it.

Will leaned over his daughter's bed, place a hiss on her forehead. He smoothed her back from from that all-too-familiar face as he'd done a million times when she'd been a child. When she still looked up to him, thinking he held the world on his shoulders. When he could still protect her from all of life's scrapes and bumps. His baby girl. He dropped into the vacant seat beside Sam, mind restless, and prepared for the long wait.


	13. Chatter

Sam dreamt of the Afghanistan sun and sniper fire. The acrid scent of burning rubble filled his nostrils, mingling with the wails of children, too young to understand the destruction of loss that surrounded them. Their world had been turned upside down. The earth thundered beneath his feet as bullets pounded into the ground, burying themselves in the molten sand. And Jules danced just beyond his grasp. Always too far. He reached, with blood soaked hands, finding no purchase. They merely flailed in the air, slick and red, as she slipped away again.

His heart racing, he rocketed upright, awake at last - free from the terrible dream. And, yet, looking over at Jules' still motionless form in the hospital bed he knew the nightmare was far from over.

He rubbed his hands briskly over his weary face, scratching at the prickly five-o-clock growth. How long had it been? Hours? Days? He'd simply lost track.

A styrofoam cup was thrust at him. Without question he accepted the coffee, gulping it down. It was luke-warm but the powerful kick of caffeine made him feel minimally more human.

Glancing up he winced inwardly.

Jules' father.

"Thanks." His voice was hallow. Dead and wooden to his own ears.

Her father merely nodded, his eyes still glued to Jules.

"She's going to be okay." Will said, voice drawling slowly and softly as he moved back to Jules' side. He carefully tucked the blankets around her chest. The thrumming of the heart monitors, even and low, was the only thing to break the suffocating blanket of silence.

_Couldn't know that. _Sam's mind warned him. _Never know that._ He merely nodded.

"She's strong. She's healthy. She's a fighter. Always scrapping with her brothers as a kid. They must have taught her well because she hardly ever lost unless she wanted to." Will said softly. His hand covered his daughters'. "Jules' pull through. She always does. Gotta believe she will. Can't imagine losing her."

Neither could Sam. The idea ripped a hole in him. His chest squeezed painfully around his heart, constricting ever tighter at the thought.

"Sam Braddock." Sam finally said. He extended a hand, which was grasped tightly and shaken firmly. "I was … I was with Jules on the rooftop when it happened." And he'd never forget the sight of his hands, red with her blood. The feeling of her chest heaving up with each laboured breath. The sick slide of blood as it rushed out of the fist-sized in her chest.

"Will Callaghan. And I know who you are." His eyes never left his daughter. His tone made it evident he was fully aware of Sam's relationship with his youngest child and sole daughter.

Sam couldn't form the question or the words so he merely shrugged. He didn't give a flying shit who knew, at this point. He just wanted her to open those damn tawny eyes. He wanted her to wake up. He needed her to be okay.

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Why? You didn't hurt her, did you?" Jules' dad shrugged in a gesture all too familiar to Sam.

"No. But I left her open and unprotected. I should have known it was a decoy. It was too easy. I left her out in the open with no shield and he fucking shot her." Sam still couldn't believe it. The scene played over in his head like a broken tape. The confusion, the fear. The cold hard anger threading through his veins. Why had he left her there? Wide open. They should have planned for it.

"She was wearing her body armour." Thank god, Will added mentally. "She knew the risks. You both had a job to do. Neither of you could have known."

"It's just …." Sam hesitated. He couldn't get his mouth around the words. "I don't like seeing her like this."

"No. I don't either. Every time I hear the phone ring I think it's them calling to tell me she's been hurt. And each time I'm absolutely paralyzed with fear. But the reality is so much worse." Will said. "Never wanted her to join the police."

"But Jules does what she wants." Sam said dryly.

"Jules has always had a mind of her own. She knows what she wants. She wanted to join the RCMP, she wanted to be a trained sniper, she wanted the taskforce position. She sets her sights on something and then she goes for it. I think she'd be pissed if she knew you were blaming yourself.

Sam nodded blankly. His eyes lowered to his hands, clamped together between his knees, knuckles white. He'd scrubbed and scraped, emptying the soap cartridge in the men's bathroom until the water had run clear and cold across his palms. But even know looking at them he saw her blood.

"Yeah. I know what that's like. It's hard to forget. The feeling of a friends' fate on your shoulders. Blood on your hands. I remember." Will smiled grimly. It was that feeling that had driven him away from Toronto. He'd fled the city, five children in tow, for a simpler life. He'd wanted to walk the earth and smell the salt of the soil. He'd wanted to know that he was making life - creating what he'd seen so callously destroyed that day at the clocktower, thirty-five years before. Sow your seeds and watch the stems grow strong.

But still sometimes he looked at his hands and saw red.

"What do I do?" Sam asked.

"Just keep the faith in her. She'll pull through in her own time. She always does." Will said, patting her hand.

He glanced over at the bed. Jules' chest rose and fell and the machine ticked another heartbeat.

It wasn't enough. But it would have to do.


	14. Ripple

Blades of wheat threaded up between her fingers, dancing against her legs and arms. They shone like spun gold beneath the sun and, as the wind swayed, they rippled like a the ocean's waves.

They were her fathers' fields. it was the land where she'd grown up, running wild with her brothers, where the massive plains of wheat were separated only by narrow meandering creeks and thin fenceposts. She imagined if she stood on tip-toe and squinted she could see the hazy shadow of the orchid where her father kept his prized apple trees and, beyond that, the very peak of the family's red barn.

The fresh, musty scent of earth filled her nostrils as she tentatively stepped forward, wet soil grinding beneath her bare feet.

The cloudless sky was massive, the horizon uncluttered by buildings or mountains or trees. Just pure land stretching out as far as the eye could possibly see and that sky - that massive, massive, sky - stretching on for days above her. She tilted her head back, letting the sun slant across her face and arms, warming her to the core.

It was like the most beautiful memory.

Her whole body urged her to run - to race forward through the rows of wheat and grass, back to the only place she'd ever called home.

But at the edges something lingered. Something that pulled her back and kept her from racing across those fields. Something that dampened that golden sunlight.

"Jules."

His voice. Her heat panted as she thought of him, now. She wished she could see his face. Tell him it was going to be okay.

"Jules, come back now."

He sounded so scared.

She faltered.

"Jules, I need you."

She didn't know it was in her to cry, but here they were, tears slipping down her face. They rolled down her cheeks, leaving behind cool wet tracks.

She could see his eyes now. Only those blue eyes.

She was lost.

"Jules, I love you."

The pain came rushing back, barreling through her veins and pulsing in her head. She crumpled as it overcame her, forcing her to the ground. The grass faded away in a blur of white hot agony and that beautiful endless blue sky vanished.


	15. Stir

_AN: Kinda sappy but ... h'enjoy?_

She awoke as the sun slanted low, moments from dipping below the horizon. Dusky light filtered through the large windows, sliding in long shadows along the floor. Flecks of dust danced, suspended in those weak beams of dying sunlight. Rising up, falling down, lifting again in a strange and rhythmic dance.

Jules slipped back into consciousness slowly - the way a sapling grows into a sturdy tree or a monumental castle falls into ruin - slowly, ever so slowly. It was the first thing she noticed as her eyes turned to focus. Tiny specks of grey twirling through the too stagnant air.

Staring up the grid-like ceiling she tried to remember. There'd been burning, fiery pain shooting through her left side and hands pressing down on painful wounds. A flurry of faces - her team and masses of sea-foam green scrubs.

Son of a bitch had _shot _her, she thought again, indignation boiling to the bone.

Her head felt heavy, swimming beneath a filmy veil of heavy dose pain-killers. Beneath it the sharp edge of pain persisted. It rang down her limbs and pounded at the base of her skill. She tried to shift, to roll into a more comfortable position. But the effort even to raise her head was monumental. Her body simply wouldn't respond.

The constant buzz of the mask feeding oxygen into her lungs whirred through her brain. The air being forced down her nostrils and into her throat made it feel papery and dry.

Humiliation and frustration swamped her.

_I won't cry. I won't cry._

She turned her head into the sunlight, hoping it would burn away the excess tears. And there he was, propped up in the chair beside her, silhouetted against the rosy light of sunset. She knew, instinctively, it was Sam. Even though the sun was shining at his back, she knew. He would be there.

His head was tipped down, lost in thought and his legs stretched out, crossed loosely at the ankle in a position she knew he adopted when forced to sit for more than thirty minutes at at time. Something she'd learned well during long briefings and endless stake-outs.

Lifting a hand she pulled the oxygen mask, loosening its tight vies around her face. She sucked in a deep breath.

"Sam." She wasn't sure she'd even said it.

But hearing her voice, tired and raspy though it was, his head shot up. And for a second they only stared at each other - blue eyes on brown, one exhausted cop to another.

"Jules" He rose slowly, rubbing clammy hands over the knees of his jeans as he struggled to his feet. The first step he took was unsteady. Was this real? Was she really back? Running a hand down her arm, he squeezed her hand, clenching her fingers in his.

Though her grip was weak she squeezed back.

Definitely real.

He fumbled for the call button, reaching up to jab the bright red button. His heart was pouring a furious tattoo inside his chest, drumming on his ribcage with wild abandon.

"No. Don't." She kept her hand locked on his. She didn't want more drugs. Her head was only just clearing away the dregs of sleep and pain. She felt sluggish and weak. She didn't want drugs to help her drift away again. She needed to stay here - stay awake.

"Jules." He protested, hand hovering above the plastic nob. She was in pain - he could see it. Her skin was waxy and wane, the spider-web network of veins visible at her temple beneath the nearly transparent layer of skin. Her eyes were glazed with it.

"Later." She's exhausted and even the effort to speak seems monumental. For now she just wanted him to sit with her and know she would be safe.

He carefully eased a hip down onto the cot beside her and for a minute they simply looked at one another.

She took in the dark shadow of a beard sprouting along his jaw, the purplish stains of sleeplessness hovering around his eyes, his weary expression. She instantly knew he hadn't had peace in days and her heart felt heavier for it.

"You gave us quiet the scare Julianna." Sam said. It was overwhelming relieving to have those cool eyes stare back at him - it had his hand shaking as he stroked hair back from her face.

She lifted a shoulder and let it fall.

"I … " He paused. Words were failing him - caught in his throat. The right ones wouldn't come. He wanted to be strong for her. She must be so afraid - in so much pain. But the right thing to say just wouldn't come.

"When you hit the roof, Jules, I thought that was it. I thought you were dead. There was just so much blood." Sam confessed. He couldn't scrape that memory of his brain. Rushing towards her, even as bullets smacked into the concrete at his feet. Reaching down with trembling hands. Feeling the pulse and hearing her gasping breath. Hoping - praying even - that it wouldn't be her last. Her blood seeping on his hands.

Her blood. His hands.

"I wouldn't have known what to do, Jules. I've lost a lot of friends. But never anyone like you." _Anyone I loved like you - _he added mentally. It wasn't fair to foist that on her now when she was so weak. She'd need him to be brave. She'd need him to be strong for the both of them. She wouldn't need him throwing his feelings at her feet, pressuring her for more.

He'd almost said it this morning - almost. But it would have to wait now.

His hand fiddled with the blanket, tucking it more securely around her.

"You know it's strange. When I came back, I thought things were over for me. I shot my best friend, I lost my team. And I was just numb. I couldn't feel anything. Coming here I wasn't sure I'd ever be normal again. But I was fucking scared today. Angry too. Somehow things have changed, I guess. I don't know but they've changed, Jules." He let out an uneven breath. "I care about you."

"Sam." She squeezed his hand, still interlocked with hers. It was close as either one of them could come to those frightening words. It would be a breaking point - no going back.

"I should call the doctor." Sam said, voice lowering as his head bent closer to hers.

"No." She protested. She didn't want the doctors or nurses. She just wanted him to stay.

He kissed her cheek before reaching again for the button.

"Sam." She protested. "Sam. Don't leave."

"Of course." He grinned broadly, heart lighter than before. "I'm not going anywhere."


	16. Doubt

Sam dragged a hand down his face. The debrief – a terse, tension-filled meeting of solemn and stony faced officers reviewing one of the most painfully personal cases they'd had to cover – had come and gone. And here he was back at the hospital.

_Traced to the roof of an already cleared building. Constables Braddock and Callaghan dispatched to investigate._

He probably should have gone home. He'd been spending nearly every day at the hospital. Every waking hour by her side. Sometimes she'd be resting, fitful bouts of sleep interrupted by nightmares that her arching off the bed, away from some unseen enemy. Other times she'd be higher than a kite with pain medication they pumped in her to keep the pain manageable.

He held her hand when they'd come to re-bandage the wound. And every time, looking down at the quiltwork of angry red lines crossing her back and ribs he thanked his lucky stars that the bullet hadn't been two inches to the left. Thank _god _her vest had slowed the bullet. That the surgeons had been quick and clever with their hands. That they'd managed to get her off that roof.

Thank god she was alive.

_Constables Braddock and Callaghan sighted a decoy – a suspicious looking shape on the roof. Constable Callaghan provided cover while Constable Braddock approached._

It gave him bad moments. Even now, he'd wake up in the middle of the night in cold sweats, her name on his lips. Watch her fall over and over again. Always just out of reach. A little too far. Sometimes, in his dreams, she died in his arms, her blood soaking his uniform. Sometimes she'd look up at him accusingly.

"You did this." She'd said in a flat voice that wasn't quite her own.

"You're responsible."

"You didn't save me."

"You didn't even try."

"You did nothing."

_At which point the subject, having relocated to the roof of City Hall, let off a shot, striking Constable Callaghan in the chest. Constable Braddock used his riot shield to protect them both until such time that they could be retrieved safely from the roof. Constable Callaghan was transferred to an ambulance where she was rushed to St. Simons for emergency surgery._

He needed to be near her – he told himself it was for her. She shouldn't have to face the demons and nightmares alone, he told himself. He wanted her to know, when she woke, that she was safe. He wanted to be the hand she clenched when they prodded her with needles and metal rods. When she was weak and drowsy with the morphine, he wanted to be the one there. Making sure she was okay.

He owed her that much.

Sam didn't love many people. His mother. His sister Natalie – even though she was a massive pain in the ass. His father, even knowing they'd never see eye-to-eye on things. And he'd loved Sarah. His sweet sister.

She'd died. And that had been his fault too. He hadn't been quick enough to pull her away. He hadn't been able to stop her from dying.

He couldn't do that again – not with Jules.

So every day, he was there. Whether she wanted him there or not. He'd stick. He had a chance to make things right. And he wasn't about to let it slip through his fingers again.


	17. Flicker

_Hi guys! Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter. They did my heart good. I wasn't actually going to write something today but, well, there's some stuff happening right now and I wanted to do something that made me happy. So ... here's another update. Don't get too used to a bombardment of chapters. I'm sure to pull a Panda and bail for months when schoolworks gets hard /jk._

_Love!_

* * *

"Sam." Jules called, voice tired, tone bordering on whiny.

"Yeah?" Sam sighed, not looking up from his _NHL Weekly._

"Sam."

"Yes Jules?"

"Saaam."

"What is it, Jules?" He asked, carefully dog-earing one of the glossy pages before setting the magazine aside.

He looked over at her. The blankets were yanked up to her chin, leaving on her face bare. Her brown hair was carefully swept back from her flushed face. And her eyes – those amber eyes – were clouded over with pain and meds.

"I'm a seahorse."

He had to stifle the laugh bubbling up in his throat.

"Okay Jules." He said, reaching with one hand to feel her forehead. Her skin was slightly warm and clammy – a side-effect he'd come to expect from the drugs they pumped through her veins.

The hallucinations however – they were new.

Jules had been uncomfortable, complaining of pains in her back and legs that afternoon. She'd tried to overcome the aches, gritted her teeth and breathe though the worst of it. But it was exhausting and had taken its toll on her. The doctors had boosted her dosage, hoping the morphine would help the burning pain subside.

As a result she was high as all hell.

"It's okay Jules. You'll be fine. Close your eyes and go to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."

She twitched restlessly in her bed, closing her eyes and digging talon-like claws into the fleece of her quilt. He waited, ticking down the seconds as she struggled to drop off into sleep.

"But Sam." She whined.

"Yes Jules?"

"I don't have a star to wish on."

"Uhm." He glanced towards the window. No luck. Toronto's light pollution made it nearly impossible to see anything on the best of nights and, as luck would have it, the horizon was covered almost entirely by thick dark layers of cloud. There would be no star for Jules tonight.

"Can't go to sleep without making a wish." She said, raising her right hand to knuckle at her tired eyes. Her left arm was still sluggish and unresponsive – it worried him the way she favoured it. He wondered if she'd ever be the same.

Brushing those thoughts aside Sam dug into his pockets. Wallet. Cell. Badge. Shit – why the hell weren't their police badges in the shape of a damn star? Visitors pass. Pen. Pocketknife.

Lighter.

Awesome.

He held it out, rolling the small dial until metal grated and sparks jumped. Perfect.

"Ohhhh. Pretty." Jules said reaching, with surprising speed, for the tiny orange flame.

"Jesus Christ Jules." He said, jerking the lighter back before she could plunge her fingers into the fire. "You trying to get me kicked out of here?"

"Noooo." She replied, eyes focused on the small metal lighter. "Make it come back Sam." She pleaded.

He rolled his eyes. "All right. But no touching." He warned her, flicking the lighter back on. The small flame danced over hole, shifting from blue to yellow to orange.

"Make your wish Jules."

She pressed her eyes closed tight and, for a moment, gnawed on her bottom lip.

"Got it?" Sam asked.

"Not yet." She murmured, not bothering to open her eyes.

He knew what he would wish for - that this would be easier on her. That it would all be over soon and she could go back to the house she loved so dearly – the place she'd made home. She'd no doubt drive him insane, ordering him about with paint and drywall. Over-exerting herself to keep from boredom. Pissing him off because she wouldn't take a rest. He looked forward to it.

"Okay." She interrupted him, voice brimming with smug satisfaction. "Got it."

He flicked the lid closed and the light vanished.

"What did you wish?" He had to ask.

"I wished that you were a seahorse too."


	18. Pity

_Hey all. School is eating my life. Don't have time to breathe let alone write most days. Wrote this update while waiting for The War Within to download. Enjoy._

Jules stared glumly out the window, watching the rain slash against the windows in driving sheets of grey. The hot days of August were blending into the more muted temperature of September. The flashy storms of summer with their claps of thunder and their cool, relieving rains had subsided in favour of grey skies and drearily long days where wind poured down relentlessly.

She tried not to be too sour. She told herself she was lucky to be alive.

She told herself that she was strong. She was young. She was Jules freaking Callaghan.

She could recover from this. This was nothing. She could bounce back. She was resilient and determined. She'd been bucked off a horse, she'd been punched, kicked, scratched and shoved. She'd even caught the sharp end of a box cutter during one particularly nasty take-down when she'd been a rookie with the RCMP. She'd taken a freaking header of a radio tower.

She always recovered. Admittedly she'd never been shot before. But she considered that merely a challenge.

And she was failing to rise to it, she thought bitterly. She glared down at the useless arm. It looked fine – normal except the faint bruising near her shoulder. It looked the damn same as it always looked. The inside of her wrist bore a dark scar from her teenage years when she'd experimented, stupidly, with cutting. She'd wanted a release from the pain of losing her mother. Instead she'd earned a three-week stay in the psychiatric ward of the Chinook Regional Hospital and five sets of Callaghan eyes monitoring every single thing she did for two years following.

She'd thought of that as her own personal bottom – the lowest place she could ever get to. And the scar was jus a mark of that – a reminder that rocky roads get clearer. Even the worst aches fade with time and, no matter how rough life could be it was always worth living. Odd though it was, it usually made her feel better, looking down at that scar.

Today it brought her no comfort. She'd never come so close to falling back to that level until now.

She was scared. Not the quick terror that jumped into her throat when a subject swung the barrel of his gun in her direction, nor the quiver of panic when the hand of a knife-wielding hostage-taker began to tremble. It wasn't even the deep-seated fear of whether they could get everyone out okay. This was a crushing, consuming anxiety, rising inside her. It coated every inch of her inside until she couldn't bear it anymore.

This was who she was now – everything she knew herself to be was all wrapped up in Constable Julianna Callaghan. She practically breathed for her job. She'd found something she was good at, something that mattered.

It didn't seem fair that it might be wretched away.

She knew they would be replacing her. It was only a matter of time. A team needs each of its players and hers was down a man. They wouldn't be cleared for duty with only six. Sam hadn't said anything about it and whenever she hinted at it he made cheerful, if completely transparent, attempts to steer for calmer waters.

What if her arm didn't recover quickly enough to get her position on the team back? Would she be tucked away in some desk job in some forgettable precinct, a cautionary tale of the dangers of elite taskforces?

What if the person they hired to fill her slot was so amazing that they would't take her back? A perfect shot, a flawless negotiator. A hulk of a man who could easily sling a hostage over his shoulder and still manage to run a three minute mile. Somebody who could defuse bombs with the touch of a surgeon and take down gang-hired muscle with ease. With her weak arm and her tiny stature she'd never be able to compete. She'd battled her way onto the force once. She wasn't sure she could do it again.

Her whole life's work gone. Over in an instance.

The door eased open and Jules frowned, eyes darting to the corner of the muted television. Quarter after eight in the morning, the digital display read.

"Dad?" She called uncertainly. And sure enough, his grizzled head popped around the corner of the door.

"There's my Julianna." He said, shuffling into the room. "How are you feeling today, little girl?"

Her father was leaving today – back to Alberta. Though her brothers were capable enough of pitching in during harvest, he couldn't leave the farm much longer. The fields would need turning, the hay would need cutting. Her father'd already been in Toronto nearly a week but he'd promised to stop in on the way to the airport.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. His beard prickled the skin on her temples. He smelled exactly as he always had – of coffee and ivory soap. Memories forced themselves to the surface: of long winter nights lying on her stomach beside his recliner as he read aloud stories of faraway places, knights and pirates; of watching the sunrise over the low horizon on the porch of their family home, his hand resting on her small shoulder; of her father's tight hugs before she left the farm after each weekend she'd come home from the academy. Her eyes pricked with tears.

"There now, Julie-Bean. What this for?" He asked, rocking back on his heels. He was painfully uncomfortable around female tears. And had been eternally grateful that, growing up, his daughter had been rough-and-tumble like her brothers. No tears for his Julianna. But that didn't mean she'd always been happy or that she'd never been hurt.

Jules lifted a shaky hand to her eyes, wiping away the tears. "Gave me eyedrops." She lied.

He nodded solemnly. He desperately wanted to follow her lead and pretend that she was okay. But he'd taken the easy way out before and it hadn't done his daughter many favours the first time around.

"I reckon that's a lie." He said slowly, shifting so that he could sit on the bed. The leg he eased down onto the hospital cot dangled off the ground. In a sign Jules knew to be nervousness he jiggled his foot, swinging it back and forth.

"I figure you're feeling a little sorry for yourself, kid."

"I got shot. I think I deserve a few moments of self-pity Dad." Jules replied bitterly.

"Well sure you do. Life handed you a pretty ugly hand. But you've still got to play the cards, Julianna, but the game's not over yet."

"Feels like it is." Her words were uneven as she struggled to push them out. The tears welled over fasted now. She couldn't help it. They spilled over, tracking down her cheeks in long, silvery trails. They blurred her vision and stung her eyelids.

"I bet it does." His heart twisted at the sight of his little girl, tucked up in the hospital bed, weeping. "It's okay to cry about it. There's nothing wrong with that. When bad things happen it's okay to let it out and have a good cry."

She couldn't stop the flow of tears even if she had wanted to at this point.

"I know you've worked hard to get to where you're at. And we're all real proud of you. It probably feels like you can't come back from this but there's where you're wrong, kiddo."

He brushed a tear away with his thumb. She tried to force herself to take a calm and steady breath but all that came was a ragged sob.

"If this is what you want I don't doubt you'll get it. You're going to have to fight to get your health back and you'll have to fight your way back onto your team. So you've got to give it your all. You're a fighter Jules."

"What if I can't do it?" She asked, voice hitching.

"Then you'll find something else you want to do. You'll use your skills some other way to help people. You can still be happy. You are not your job Jules. You're a hell of a lot more." Her father brushed away her tears with his thumb, calloused fingers brushing her cheek.

A smile eeked through the tears.

"You've always got a home at the farm, Jules." Her father said, covering her hand with his and squeezing tight.

"Thanks Dad." She squeezed back with all of her might. The nasty knot of nerves nestled in her stomach slipped a notch. "I wish you could stay." She gave a watery smile.

"Me too, kid. I love you."

"I love you too Daddy."

He kissed her forehead again. "I'm here for you. Whatever you need. Just have to ask." He said gruffly, rising slowly to his feet.

She was going to miss him terribly.

When he reached the door he turned around. She was trying to hard to be brave, he knew. His little Julianna.

"My moneys on you, kid."


	19. Catch My Eye

_AN: Hey all - swamped as usual. Wrote this last week because I want to get better at updating on a more regular bases but I had the ammmmazing foresight that I would have zero writing time in my hellish midterm week. Muhaha. Brilliant._

"Is this even necessary boss?" It was Spike who asked but the bitter question had been burning at Sam for the past hour. "It's not like she's not coming back."

Lew nodded solemnly, not bothering to look up from the sheets of paper in his hand.

The team was gathered around the long glass table in the briefing room. On the table in front of them lay piles of paper and manila folders. Some were stacked neatly, corners perfectly straight. Others were strewn across the table in messy clusters. Half-empty coffee mugs sat, forgotten, amid the confusion.

They'd put it off as long as possible – but it simply couldn't be delayed any longer. They needed a seventh person - they needed a complete team to be cleared for duty. As much progress as Jules had made, she was a long way from being able to handle the punishment the job would throw at her. Sam wasn't even sure if she'd be able to carry her sniper rifle at the moment.

So here they were, siphoning through the landslide of applications they'd received for the position. Working with the SRU was a privilege that cops across the city coveted. Word that a spot had opened up had been met with a rapid eagerness that had turned Sam's stomach.

It wasn't easy. Glancing down the table Sam noted the rolled up sleeves and tapping fingers, furrowed brows and tensed lips. None of them were pleased about having to replace an injured team member.

"We don't know that. In the mean time we're short a man." Ed cautioned. Sam's blood flashed hot in his veins as Ed's cavalier attitude. He knew that, as Team Leader, Ed was trying to be objective and grounded for the team. But it didn't stop him for hating him for a few miserable seconds.

_Or a woman._ That's what Jules would have said. He missed her fiercely. He glanced, quickly, at her empty chair. It mocked him. Reminded him of what wasn't there – what wasn't right. He missed hearing her banter with the guys. Listening to her argue with Wordy over the radio station was more entertaining than the music they finally settled on most of the time. He missed riding with her. He missed her challenges on the shooting range; she was also livid that he beat her. She'd always demanded a rematch. Usually she'd lose then too.

He missed his friend.

He forced himself to skim the personnel information in front of him. They'd been at this for over an hour already, the piles gradually swelling as applications were sorted into potential candidates and outright rejections.

"This feels wrong." Wordy muttered, slapping another file on top of the 'potential' pile.

"If Jules recovers she's got a spot here." Sarge said, slipping another file into the rejected pile. Sam couldn't help but noticed that only two files had slipped through Sarge's critical gaze, earning spots in the potential stack. Clearly he wasn't the only one having an issue with replacing Jules.

He told himself she was goddamned coming back. Just as soon as she was able. Which, god help him, would be very _very _soon.

He glanced down at the file, forgotten in his hand. He'd read it before, eyes skimming the stats and summaries, but none of it had sunk in. He looked down at the exuberant young face. _Rookie_ it screamed. Under two years on the job. Mediocre gun range scores. No experience negotiating.

It was tempting to put it in the potential pile. It seemed perverse but he wanted Jules' replacement to _suck_. So that they'd be just that – a replacement. Nobody they'd ever dream of keeping on once she was well again. They were drawing the best and brightest from every department across the city. People that, no doubt, wouldn't leave without a fight. God he hoped Jules had it in her to claw her way back to the top.

He stared down at the page again, eyes narrowing as he skimmed the biography once more. Temptation surged.

But, damn it, a green-ass rookie wasn't good for the team _or _the people that would be put in danger by their incompetence and inexperience.

Disgusted with himself he tossed the file aside.

"If I read another application my mind is going to explode." Spike said pressing his fingers to his eyes. Sam sympathized. "At least when we got you, we didn't have to do all this bull." He joked to Sam.

Sam gave him a sardonic smile. Hurrah! His teammates hadn't had a choice in picking him. That made him feel _infinitely _better. He wondered which pile he would have gone into if his file had been slipped into one of these team selections. No experience negotiating. Friendly fire fatality marring his military record. Daddy pulled some strings and, voila, all that red tape magically disappeared. Just as it had his whole damn life. It was hard knowing what had been his father's careful navigating and what he'd truly deserved.

He told himself it didn't matter. He was earning his own way now. He might not have been their first choice. But damned if he wasn't the best choice now.

He picked up another folder and flipped open the front jacket. Good marksmanship scores – not perfect but solid. Experience in under cover – handy for relating to subjects. Over a decade on the force. Glowing recommendations from her commanding officer. A perfect application.

Sam glanced at the name on the cover of the application.

_Sabine, Donna_.

"Anything good?" Lew asked, nudging Sam's boot with his foot.

Sam shrugged, dropping her into the potentials pile. "Nothing catches my eye."


	20. Rest

_Hi friends - I hope you're all doing well. Sorry for not updating for so long. As I always say, school's been kicking my butt and eating my life. Standard excuse by now, I'm sure, but it's still as true now. I wish I could be more vigilant._

_This chapter is in special honour of Delysia's birthday this past Saturday. Something extra jammy, coming right up._

_I hope you all enjoy the ride - lemme know whatcha think._

* * *

Some distant grandfather clock chimed the hour: a dozen faint tolls rung through the emptied halls of the hospital. Jules turned restlessly, her body sliding awake. She'd had two exhausting, frustrating rounds of physiotherapy today, but still, sleep wouldn't return to her.

The plastic chair beside her squeaked under shifting weight.

"Sam?" She whispered.

He leaned forward, grinning sheepishly. "Julianna." The only light was the hazy yellow glow from the streetlamps outside her window. He leaned forward into their weak beams, gold catching on his solemn profile.

"You should go back to sleep. Need your rest." He murmured.

"How did you get in?" She asked. Sam was back on day hours now, his time gobbled up by eight-to-eight shifts, leaving little time to visit Jules. Today's case – an armed robbery at a Parliament Street Quick-Mart – had run them into overtime. By the time debrief had wrapped visiting hours were long over and the dragon-lady head nurse, hardly known for her leniency, had turned him away.

"Being SRU has its advantages." Sam shrugged, intentionally vague.

"Fire escape?"

"Nah. Used the cafeteria loading bay." He smiled. He brushed his lips over the back of her hand.

"That chair can't be comfortable." Jules frowned at him. The plastic molding was stiff and unyielding. Hardly suitable for a night's rest. She eased over, shuffling on the bed until there was a sliver of room beside her. She patted the mattress with her hand.

"Jules." Sam protested. "You need your rest."

"So do you." She said, easing back another precious inch until she felt the metal rails of the hospital cot press against her back. She tapped the bed beside her again, this time more insistently. "Come on."

Sam rolled his eyes before slowly rising to his feet. He leaned forward, carefully unlacing and peeling off his boots. His hair was getting a touch long, brushing the collar of his University of Toronto sweatshirt. He'd always kept it militarily short. She imagined years of service on JTF2 and the General had drilled that into him. Not today, though.

He let down the bed guards with a sudden 'chink' that seemed to reverberate through the silent room before sitting slowly on the bed, testing its strength as he sank into the cot.

Slowly, carefully he lay down, stretching his tired body down the length of the tiny bed. Cautious of her aching side, she curled against him, nestling close and resting her head against the crook of his shoulder. His arm wrapped around her, shielding her. Protecting her as he couldn't that terrible day.

She could hear his heart, sure and slow, and it comforted her. As did his familiar scent, surrounding her. The feel of his skin, brushing against hers. She'd missed him – them – like this.

"Tell me something." She said, yawning.

"What do you want? Funny? Sad? True?" His hand stroked her hair absently brushing down her neck. He licked his lips.

"Something about you." She always seemed to want more of him.

"Long or short?" He asked.

"Long." She answered decisively. "We've got time."

She curled closer. Her feet twined with his now, beneath the thin cotton sheets. She rested her hand against his chest now, feeling his chest rise and fall with each breath. She felt inexplicably calm.

"Something about me, huh?" Sam asked. She nodded sleepily against his chest. "Did I ever tell you about Japan?"

"You were in Japan?" She shouldn't have been surprised – she'd known that he'd travelled around a lot as a child. Bumped from base to base, country to country. She'd know about the bases in Manitoba and Alberta, the years spend in Saudi, his teenage years at Petawawa. But still, he'd never mentioned Japan.

"Yeah. Well, I don't remember much. I was about four when we arrived. Yeah. Nat was born there, so I guess that's probably right. She gets off telling people she's Japanese." He grinned, thinking of his blonde-and-blue-eyed sister passing herself off as Asian.

"Dad was stationed there as an expert military advisor when I was young. It was a big thing between Japan and Canada – we were helping train their officers and strengthen their military. I don't remember much. But when the operation was over there was a big ceremony at the Imperial Palace. The Emperor wanted to express his gratitude and appreciation of the friendship between our two countries' or … whatever spiel politicians have to give over this stuff."

"Uh huh." Jules murmured. She let her fingers trail over his chest to the place where his dog tails rested beneath his sweater. She could feel the outline of them beneath the worn cotton, traced it with one long finger.

"All of the officers families were invited. My father wanted me to come. I'd had a cold all week though and Mom told him it was a bad idea. He never really listened to her all that much. He told her it was a once in a lifetime opportunity to commune with the King of freaking Japan." Sam grinned. Mom certainly had known best.

"What happened?" She asked.

"Well we went, of course. Dad was a Brigadier-General so he felt obligated. I remember waiting there in this huge fancy ballroom in front of what looked like hundreds of people. All looking at us. Mom had stuffed my pockets full of Kleenex because my nose was still running like a faucet. But I'd already gotten through all of them. The emperor was still a few people down the line. He's making his way down through the ranks and, goddamn, if he isn't taking a _lifetime_. My nose was just _dripping_."

"Oh Sam."

He sighed half-heartedly. "Yep. One minute mom looks and I'm standing there trying to stoically sniffle it back. The next I'm down on all fours wiping my nose in the Emperor's priceless Persian rug."

Laughter bubbled in her throat, until her body shook with it. She buried her face in his shoulder, her shoulders heaving.

"It looked soft enough to four year old me." He muttered defensively. "Much better than meeting the emperor with a faceful of snot."

"Did anyone notice?" She asked, breath still hitching.

"Of course! When I looked up, there was the Emperor standing right in front of me. He was gracious enough to pretend nothing had happened but it was all anybody could talk about for days." He grinned down at her.

She couldn't suppress her own smile. She could envision Sam as a child, a blonde-haired and pink-cheeked cherub on the surface but a sticky-fingered and unruly terror underneath.

Her mind turned, unbidden, to what a baby with Sam would be like. Would it have his blonde hair or her brown? Blue eyes or brown? Whose complexion? She slid her hand up to rest against his neck, tanned brown on pale white. Would it inherit his height – god, she certainly hoped so. She wondered what it would be like to look in a face with her eyes and his charming smile.

She let out a shaky breath. She wasn't even sure motherhood was an option anymore. The bullet had ricocheted through her body. It was a mess in its' destructive path. She wasn't sure she'd ever carry a baby – feel her body heavy with the weight of a new life. Feel the surging kick of a child beneath her swollen belly.

As if sensing her thoughts, Sam's had drifted over her stomach, pressing to the place she imagined their baby stirring.

"Sam?" She asked tentatively.

"Mhmm."

"I haven't thanked you for everything. You show up here every day, whether I'm being a snarly mess or not. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. I've needed you and you've never let me down." She pressed a solemn kiss to his cheek.

"Jules." He protested.

"Sam. Don't say anything, okay?" She dropped her head to his shoulder again. It felt good there – it felt right. Kind of like she belonged there with him. She nestled in and dropped, like a stone, into sleep.

He waited, hearing the sleepy lull of her breathing. Her chest rose and fell against him rhythmically. She looked, for once, peaceful; no pain in her face when sleep claimed her. Her foot slid along his, an unconscious gesture bringing their two bodies closer. He couldn't get enough of her. He really couldn't.

Someday he'd have to marry her.

Make him hers officially.

"Jules." He whispered. She merely curled her hand above his heart – the heart that already belonged to her. "I love you."

* * *

_Drop me a line and submit a review - make this author's day._


	21. Crash

_Hello - had this idea a while ago but didn't find the time or words until this rainy morning. Apparently terrible weather is a wonderful muse. Thanks to everyone who read the last chapter - I appreciated everyone's feedback. You are all fantastic! Thank you again._

* * *

Sam felt like a criminal. It had been a long time since he'd had to shimmy up a wall into a girl's bedroom – fifteen years, in fact, since he'd attempted to scale the frail-looking trellis outside Tiffany Larson's house. She'd thought it was supremely romantic and rewarded him accordingly. He'd been pulling splinters from his hands for weeks.

Surveying the wall he grimaced. No fancy gardenwork this time, no ladder-like décor to help him hoist himself up to what was certainly an unlatched bedroom window. He tested the drainpipe, pulling on it. It held firm.

Stepping back he glanced quickly at the neighbours' house. Her blooming' shrubs would have shielded him from sight only a few months earlier, in the high heat of summer. But the leaves were browned now, falling to the ground in clumps, thrown by autumns' blustery hands. No lights were on. It was, after all, nearly three-thirty in the damned morning.

Sighing he hoisted himself up. Using feet and hands he levered himself up the pole one slow, slippery inch at a time. Damned if he wasn't exhausted. Between shifts and the hospital he was lucky to get four hours' a night. He had always been good at shutting off the world and dropping into sleep. Years in the military had taught him to rest where you can, when you can. But lately it's been hard. He lays in bed, staring up at the pockets, valleys and hills of his textured ceiling. Sleep won't come to him. His mind plays over _that _day over and over again. Soon enough the morning light slants across the floor beckoning him to rise again.

That must be why his body is so sluggish, screaming for a moment of rest. He gritted his teeth and pressed onwards. The pipe begins to groan, peeling off the brick slightly beneath his weight. But his fingers latch onto the window ledge. Almost there.

He didn't remember it being this hard last time. Of course, last time he'd been a hormone-ridden teenage boy who'd faced the promise of initiation at the hands of the perky brown-eyed co-captain of the cheerleading team. He was practically horny enough to have levitated the distance to her second-story window.

As the pipe groaned again under his sweat-dampened palms he swore to himself that the moment Jules got out of the damned hospital he was buying her a fucking trellis.

Hoisting himself up, he pressed a palm against the glass. The glass wouldn't budge.

"Come on." He grunted, shifting more of his weight to the sill. He glanced down. Big mistake. Did Jules' have the tallest house of all time? Jesus Christ. And did her bedroom window REALLY have to overlook a freaking rose bush? Goddamn. If he fell - at this point _when _he fell, he was going to need the jaws of life to extract himself from that prickly nightmare.

He scraped his fingernails along the base of the window, trying to ease them under. The summer heat might have sealed the paint on the windowframe. Maybe it was jammed from lack of use. She loved sleeping with the windows open – had often stumbled out of bed at three in the morning to throw up the glass and let the moonlight in. The hospital windows didn't open - glued shut.

He put his shoulder into it and heaved with all his might. Something loosened and the window slammed up. He tumbled through into her bedroom landing with a crash on the bedroom floor.

He groaned looking up at the immobile ceiling fan. Rubbing his aching shoulder he rolled to his feet. He fished in his backpocket for the SRU flashlight he'd, erm appropriated for his mission. He strode towards her closet, yanking down her extra duffle bag. It was empty, naturally. She had a set routine. When she came home, she emptied the bag, folding the clothes and setting them in the laundry. Who the hell folds their damned laundry, Sam thinks bemusedly, as he sets the bag on the floor. Clenching the flashlight in his teeth, he pulls open a drawer and rifles through. It's t-shirts. He grabs the first off the top, dropping it onto the open bag. The light catches the white and red logo an he realized it was one of his own, tucked in among her things. Gotten mixed up with her laundry. Almost like he belonged there with her. He shook his head. _No time for memories, Sam_, he mentally cautious himself.

He throws more tees in the bag. Opens another drawer and adds sweats – the strange, hip-hugging yoga kind she wears during their morning training sessions at the gym – the kind that hug her legs and drive him crazy. He rummages through her dresser for socks and underwear, mechanically shoving those in the bag on top. At the back of her drawer of perfectly matched and rolled socks his hands brush something fuzzy. It's jammed but with a little force he manages to extract the object.

It looks like something a dog might have gnawed on a couple decades ago. It might have been coloured once but the fabric has all grayed now. He thinks it's a slipper – one of the fuzzy animal kind you buy at the mall kiosk at Christmas. He reached further, stretching his arm to the very back of the drawer, to tug out its mate. They are the most _decidedly _UN-Jules thing he's ever seen. He grinned, shoving them on top. He's gonna give have to give her hell for that one.

She's starting physiotherapy tomorrow. He can tell she's terrified. Her side is still weak, still hurting her and her balance is shot to hell. Sometimes she gets dizzy just sitting in bed. She won't admit it, but she sways, lightly from side to side, and her eyes get hazy. The doctors' are saying she'll walk, but with a limp. And neither of them is going to settle for that prognosis.

She'll feel better in her own clothes, instead of the stupid powder blue scrubs the hospital gives their patients. Might as well be prison orange to Jules. That's how she sees her hospital stay – like a jail. Here's hoping her injury isn't a life-sentence. She just needed a little confidence. Hence his three AM brainstorm to break into her damn house and steal her some real pants. He should have asked for the key. But he wanted it to be a surprise.

He walks to the window, dropping the bag out. It thuds lightly on the damp ground, just missing her thorny rose bush. He props himself onto the window, swinging one leg over into the cool autumn air.

He glanced over now, at the bed he'd managed to avoid looking. He missed that – he missed her there. He missed her at home, where she was comfortable. He missed her bitching about him leaving his socks on the floor and lying in her bed listening to her singing in the shower. Her voice goes deep and throaty when she sings. He'd never told her that he loved her singing voice. He'd never actually told her he loved her.

Soon, he promises, glancing at the bed once more as he lowers his other leg out the window and gently pulls the window shut again. She'll be back here soon. They both will.


	22. Recruitment

_Deleted and re-uploaded last chapter due to some embarrassing technical problems. Is there a way to edit published chapters without removing them? I'm not techn savvy..._

* * *

Sam hated her. He knew he shouldn't. It wasn't healthy – it wasn't good for the team. But he hated her anyway.

He knew, the moment she threw her opponent to the mat, she'd be the one. She dodged her attackers' sweeping blade and, lunging in, twisted his arm behind him until the knife dropped uselessly to the ground. She'd got him down in thirteen seconds. Greg's small, instinctive nod of approval marked her as the forerunner. And he hated her for it.

He hated the fact that she was calm under pressure. He hated her goddamned negotiating voice. He hated watching Spike lower his gun from Lou's temple, hated the wide grin on Ed's face at her success. What the bloody hell was there to smile about? Jules was sitting in a hospital bed three miles from there, bullet wound courtesy of somebody seeking revenge against Lane. Instead of showing some goddamned loyalty, he'd grinned like a fucking loon.

_She repels like a spider_. So did Jules before that bastard had put a slug through her chest.

_Thinks on her feet_. Who else could have caught a girl while falling off a radio tower, he wants to know.

_She's a no-brainer?_ Not according to Sam, she's not.

Watching the other candidates fail to negotiate, stammering and blundering their way towards peace resolutions, Sam was immensely grateful that his team hadn't been given a choice with him. The decision was top down, no doubt, and his teammates hadn't been too thrilled about it at first. It had gone through on an agreement between Holleran and his father, old military buddies from the 8th before the commander went civilian and took a position with the Toronto Police Force. The man had grown increasingly frustrated until Greg had stepped in, ending the simulation. Sam had no doubts he would have failed miserably. He held the honour of longest time to pass the negotiating test as a rookie. Sam had no doubt that he would have been their dead last pick.

He hated her a little because they chose her. Because she wasn't some tag-along thrust upon them by their obligated superiors. She'd been selected. And she'd reciprocated by immediately earning the trust and respect of their team leader. It had taken him weeks – months even – to integrate into the group dynamic. And here they were. Welcoming her with open arms.

But he hated her more for what she represented. Another fucking mountain for Jules to have to climb over to get this job back. Didn't the others understand? They weren't picking out a new puppy from the pound. This was _supposed_ to be temporary. He hated that she was good. Because when Jules came back it was going to make that fight even harder. Battling her way back, physically, would be hard enough. Having to best this new SRU prodigy was going to be another fucking obstacle in the massive line hurdles Jules was facing.

He hated watching her walk into the lockerroom, coolpants slung over her arm – that changeroom had always been Jules'. It always seemed so intimately and completely Jules' that watching another woman push open that door seemed like an invasion.

The image of that woman – the blonde-haired blue eyed SRU Barbie - was ingrained in his mind as he drove back to the hospital. He couldn't push it out of his brain.

"Jules Callaghan, right?" the nurse had said, smiling as he approached the desk. He was, he supposed, one of the wards' most regular visitors. The nurses had become accustomed to him dropping in and out at odd hours. Luck would have it that tonight Perky was on duty. He couldn't remember, for the life of him, any of the attendants' names, only the adjective monikers he gave them: Snarly, Grouchy, Stressed, Firtly, Dopey, Ancient and his favourite, of course, Perky.

She never gave him shit when he arrived, twenty minutes too late for visiting hours. Never made him sneak in through cafeteria loading bays or weasel his way past lounges behind laundry carts.

"Yep. Back again." He carefully printed his name on the logbook, glancing at his watch. Damn. Getting late.

"She might still be awake – you can check in on her." The nurse said, taking the chart from him to add her signature. She unclipped a visitors' tag from the board and handed it to him. "I think she's waiting for you. She had a rough day. First physio appointment today. I don't think she thought it was successful as her doc did."

"What did they say?" Sam asked. Nervous fingers traced along the edges of his pass, marking white lines in his palm with the hard plastic.

"She's got good muscle strength – she's lucky she was in such good shape before the accident. But there was so much damage to her muscles. Bullet must have ripped through a lot tissue. She's having a hard time. We're going to have to keep her longer than she'd like I'd imagine."

"Did she get on her feet? She stand up?" He was afraid of the answer.

The nurse bit her lip and shook her head.

Sam nodded grimly. "Right." She wasn't going to pleased about that.

He made his way down the hall, ticking of door numbers. No light shone out from under the door and, peering into the room through the small window he couldn't make out anything in the darkness. Maybe the nurse was mistaken. He didn't mind. It'll make breaking the news easier.

He pushed the door of her room open slowly, the light of the hallway growing across the floor. His eyes adjusted to the black after the fluorescent brightness of the hallway, tuning to the fine shades of grey.

He paused, framed by the door, watching her. She was sitting in her cot, face turned towards the window. It had started to snow, white swirling with black, catching in the yellow glare of the parking lot lights. It sloshed against the window, melting and trickling down in silver trails. She looked utterly miserable.

"Hey." He said, keeping his voice light as he stepped across the threshold. "How are you feeling? Big day."

She glanced at him, eyes raking over his face. He tried to smile, but knew it was a weak effort. She could read right through him.

"Is he good?" She asked, brow furrowed with anxiety. "Do … do the others like him?"

He thinks about lying to her – saying the newbie is rubbish. She'll have no problem overthrowing Donna and storming her way back into the coolpants and the position she deserves. He could tell her that the team hates the womans' guts. That they'll never accept her. She's just a replacement. A prosthetic until they can have her back.

But it would be a lie.

Because at the back of his mind he knows there's the possibility that Donna will stick. He's worried too.

He licks his lips. "She's good. She's really good." He grounds out, moving across the room to sit beside Jules. His hands cover hers on the bed rail and clenches hard. He can see her swallow hard, her hand goes limp beneath his. She understands. She's been replaced in every sense of the word.

"We'll just have to be better then, won't we?" She says at last. She's smiling at him – a genuine grin. She's no quitter. She doesn't give up – and neither will he.


	23. Recuperate

_Indeed, it's been a while. But that's the benefit of this story being a series of one-shots (at least sort of... - that was the intention anyway). Had this idea on the streetcar home and needed to pound it out before a couple readings. If anyone wants to know about facial tattooing and colonialism in New Zealand... well, I'm not your girl but I could probably direct you to some awfully dense readings on the subject matter._

* * *

Every muscle in her body was aching. Her arms were screaming for rest, her useless pathetic legs quaked like a newborn calf. She gritted her teeth and pressed more weight down, through the ball of her foot to the floor.

She ignored the physiotherapists' cautions. She didn't give a damn what he had to say. Three sessions in and she hadn't, despite his claims, made any progress whatsoever. He wants her to rest. They'll have plenty of time to work on it next week. She's feeling weak right now but she'll improve with time.

Screw that, she doesn't want next week or _with time_. She wants _now._

Every advantage she'd had, erased. Everything she knew how to do, everything she was good at, had changed. Her life was being rewritten and she had no control.

She'd been shot.

She had to come to grips with that.

She had to come to terms with the fact that her team had picked a replacement

She had to adapt to getting tired from holding a damn toothbrush.

She had to adjust to that ugly scar riding high on her side, low on her back. The jagged and red marks that would, with time, pucker and whiten. Souvenirs of the worst day of her life.

She had to get used to leaning. Depending on people for everything. Sam worst of all. He'd been graduated from secret fling to nursemaid. This wasn't what he'd signed up for. She didn't understand why he hadn't bolted in the other direction. He was a good-times guy - the kind of soldier with a woman in each port. She'd known that when she'd taken him to bed. She figured he'd tire of her and move on. They'd burn out and go their separate ways. That sniper's bullet should have only quickened that process.

Yet there he was. Every single day. She could set her goddamned watch by it.

The shakes migrated down her arms until her fingers were vibrating. She gripped the railing even tighter, knuckles paling under the tension. She fought against the weakness, the fatigue ravaging her body. The skin on her side is stretched painfully and the wound tugs and pulls.

She wouldn't be sentenced to a lifetime in this useless body, she promised herself. Sweat had matted her hair to her neck, damp tendrils curling away from hot skin. This she could control. This she could change.

Arms taking the brunt of the impact she levered herself up the final inch.

Standing. She can't help the sway as her legs adjust to her weight. Her thighs burn. She can't let go of the rail, metal clenched deadly tight.

"Jules."

Her eyes shoot up.

He's standing just inside the door. His shirt is inside out - white threads along the seams puckering outwards, pulled on in haste after another long shift. His hand drops from the door handle to hang uselessly by his side.

He stares at her, expression unreadable.

The physiotherapist murmurs muted and cautionary praise.

She notices, not for the first time, how deep the shadows under his eyes are. The stubble on his cheeks is days old. He's stretched thin. She doesn't want to be one more thing he needs to take care of – one more obligation to fulfill.

And suddenly he's grinning. His face lights up and he's striding across the floor. The tired is gone, vanquished by the charming and boyish smile.

"God Jules." He doesn't touch her fraid he upset this new and untested balance. He just hovers beside her, arms reaching out protectively to sturdy her if she falters. "You're standing! This is amazing."

She can't respond. The exertion, just standing there, robs her of her breath. But even if she could, she didn't have the words to give to him. How was it she could convince jumpers to ease back from ledges, could talk down gunmen, could negotiate crackheads and bankrobbers, but she can't find the right ones to say to him.

The therapist makes her sit – probably for the best as her knees are buckling, ready to give out at any minute – and stretch out. Muscles, sore from inactivity, come to life again as she kneads and flexes them. She focuses on her breathing, registers only vaguely her doc's conversation with Sam. Complex anatomical terms like thoracolumbar and anterior cruciate. He can't possibly know what the hell the man is talking about and yet he's nodding along. She wonders if he's smuggled out some poor intern's first year biology textbook because he seems to genuinely understand.

He wheels her back to her room once her session was over. She lumbered awkwardly to her feet twice more, testing the strength of her rickety legs. She managed to get off one shaky step before the therapist forced her to stop. She was pushing herself too hard he said. Needed to let the body continue to heal between sessions.

So it's back in the chair, through the labyrinth of hallways back to her room. She reaches up, over her weak shoulder to clench his hand on the arm of her chair.

"What's wrong? Are you going to be sick?" He asks, chair grinding to a quick stop. He crouches in front of her, hands automatically moving for her shirt, reaching for the hem to check the bandage. He wants to make sure she hasn't torn anything, hasn't pulled the wound back open.

"No." She rolls her eyes. "No, stop Sam. Stop." She says again as he tugs up the shirt to examine the snowy white bandage wrapped around her stomach.

"What is it?" He looks so genuinely confused. She smiles.

Under normal circumstances she'd doubt that anyone would ever accuse Sam of being a sweetheart. But he was.

"Thanks." She says, faming his face with both hands. His days-old stubble bristles against her palms, tickling them. He looks so genuinely confused she could laugh. She leans forward and kisses him. Not a light peck, nothing sweet or cute. She presses her lips to his and pours herself into it. He responds with equal heat, an innate and unconscious response. She's missed him that way.

When her breath hitches he pulls away, rocks back on his heels to survey her face. It's flushed with victory, high off her triumph in the physio lab.

"Some thank you." He stands slowly. He finds, as he pushes her back to her room, that it's his legs that aren't completely steady.


End file.
